


Into The Blue Again, After the Money's Gone

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Friendship, Gen, Late blooming friendship, Old Age, Retirement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-10
Updated: 2014-06-10
Packaged: 2018-02-04 03:40:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1764367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Very much character study. Set about ten to fifteen years in the future. Lestrade's retired, Sherlock's also retired early, as per canon, to Sussex. John's married for the second/third time....to Mary, again, under a new ID. </p><p>I ran into an interview with Rupert Graves in which he suggested that his head canon for Lestrade included that Lestrade gambles. He didn't say how much, but in a show already rife with characters with "addictions" that they keep in just enough control, but not perfect control, I thought I'd play with an addiction in some ways similar to Sherlock's, that would be sensitive to both stress and boredom. This is not about gambling, though. It's about how gambling puts the characters in a situation that ultimately forces communication. </p><p>I am not sure I'm completely convinced by RG's head canon even if he IS the actor. But I did find it interesting as a lever in this story.</p><p>This could be pre-Mystrade, but in all honesty at the stage it's at by the end, it's just slow-growing, late-blooming friendship, trust, and respect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Into The Blue Again, After the Money's Gone

Sherlock had not called Mycroft in weeks.

It was no surprise, of course. He’d found his place, at last, that wild, pirate-hearted brother of his. Love and loss and a cottage in Sussex and bees. Who would have thought it?

Lacking any fraternal outreach on Sherlock’s side, Mycroft made up the difference.

“Just checking to be sure you’re well.”

“Don’t be stupid, Mycroft. Of course I’m well. John calls regularly, his children drive him down to see me. I’ve got a housekeeper who comes in daily, though she quite despairs of me. You’d hear if I were anything less than fine, and you know it.”

“I believe it was the Americans' President Reagan who coined the phrase, ‘Trust, but verify.’ For all his flaws, that attribution alone makes him worthy of memory.”

“Oh, God, Mycroft. You’ve become such an old man. Quoting historical figures is bad enough. Passing judgment on their place in posterity? Buy a hat, brother. Your brains are obviously freezing solid for lack of insulation.”

Which was an entirely uncalled for jab at Mycroft’s regretted hair-loss, but, then—Sherlock. Of course he had to get his innings. At least now Mycroft knew his status first-hand, not just on trust.

“Witter-witter-witter. Mycroft, you’re fast running out of years in which to get a life—I suggest you hurry up and see to it, rather than continuing to snoop into mine long after it ceased offering any particular fears and worries to keep you up nights. I’ve settled. Why don’t you?”

“I’m quite settled, thank you,” Mycroft snipped back.

Sherlock scoffed, softly. “You’re fossilized in place, you mean. The drip-drip-drip of calcium-impregnated water has washed over you and turned you into a stalagmite.”

“Then come chisel me out,” Mycroft grumped.

“Find someone else to do that, Mike,” Sherlock said, sounding sullen.

Mycroft lived perfectly satisfactorily, in his own opinion. He rose at six, did half an hour on the treadmill, showered, dressed, ate a light breakfast and drank the critical cup of hot tea, then went to work. By now he was the court of last appeal, and he’d made sure that very little ever actually had to reach his desk. Most of his time was spent in review, oversight, and advance planning, rather than in the frantic damage control he’d once focused on. Much of his time was spent at the Diogenes, in silence, hiding in plain sight, looking far less aware than he truly was.

At the end of the day he could collect his umbrella, climb into his car, and return home, where he’d put in a hour on treadmill and light free weight, and, every Tuesday and Thursday, work with Wang Laozi to keep his martial arts skills from atrophying. Then he’d shower, dress in his pyjamas and robe, dine, and spend a few hours reading, listening to music, or watching a movie or play on the telly.

How much more settled could he get, he wondered…

The image of his own face turned to stone, with a drip of water hanging from his nose, came to mind far too quickly.

A stalagmite, indeed. Drat Sherlock, anyway.

oOo

He shouldn’t have backed Manchester United, Lestrade thought, wearily. He scowled. He’d gone over the odds, and he’d known it was a bit of a long shot, but he loved how Jamison leaped for the ball. His heart had ruled his head and now he’d be on beans and toast for the rest of the month. Even with adjustment for having worked two jobs, his pension didn’t amount to all that much, and when the boredom and loneliness set in he was too inclined to answer it with a trip down to the pub his usual bookie favored. Three pints in and he was likely to place a bet on a team he’d always loved since boyhood, or a horse with a name that charmed him.

Still. He was dreadfully tired of Cup-a-Soup, ramen, and beans on toast.

It was a vicious circle. Bored, gamble. Gamble, lose. Lose, live like a hermit on tinned bachelor fare and entertain himself with library books because too often he couldn’t scrape together the license-fee for the telly. Then, when the pension checks came in, it was down to the pub for pint and a bit of a wager, because, God, it was good to get out.

At least he still had what was left of his pint before he had to go home tonight. He leaned on the counter and watched the horses in the tenth race run, and wished he’d put a tenner on Sussex Sting at thirty-to-one. But the odds and the reminder of Sherlock had discouraged him. Which was a shame. He could have used three hundred to cover tonight’s losses.

“Greg?”

He looked up and met John Watson’s eyes. The doctor was as neat and comfortable as ever, even if he was showing his age. “John!” he said, delighted to see an old, familiar face. “Bugger all, it’s been dog’s years since I saw you last! What, two years?”

“I think almost three,” John said, studying Lestrade carefully. “When you helped move Sherlock down to the cottage in Sussex, wasn’t it?”

“Damned if that wasn’t a day,” Lestrade said, remembering. “End of an era, wasn’t it? And Himself rattling on nineteen to the dozen!” He shook his head, ruefully. “Who’d a’ thought Sherlock Holmes was going to be the one to retire to the country and raise bees? And love it?”

“Not me,” John grinned, then said, “It’s been forever. Let me buy you a round and catch me up.”

Lestrade had the unhappy feeling John was offering to buy because Lestrade looked like he couldn’t cover the tab—and John would be right. But it was so lovely, to run into an old friend, here in the warm glow of the pub. He smiled. “Don’t mind if I do, mate. Don’t mind if I do. How are you, these days?”

“Not bad. Well. You know—in practice. Marriage is going well.”

“Married? You’ve married again?”

John frowned, slightly. “Yeah. I invited you. Couldn’t make it, but you bought me and Mary something…and, I’m sorry, I can’t remember what. Toaster?”

“No idea,” Lestrade said. “Truth is, it slipped my mind. She’s nice?”

John smiled. “She’s just right.”

Lestrade nodded. “Glad. Glad you got over losing…”

“It’s not…something you get over,” John said, not meeting his old friend’s eyes. “Just something you go on from.”

Lestrade nodded.

They talked for over an hour, after, Lestrade doing what he could to skirt his own circumstances, John appearing reticent about his, but both happy to remember other times and adventures.

When John finally pushed off, Lestrade could only sigh. Sometimes he missed it all so much it hurt.

He tipped the pint one last time, savoring the final drops lingering at the bottom of the glass, and headed home. He’d got a new book from the library, and he could finish the night curled up under the duvet with a book and never need to turn the heat in the flat on at all.

oOo

“Sherlock, I think he’s in trouble. Looks to be down on his luck, in any case. Not eating well, from the looks of it. Clothes are threadbare. Doesn’t he have a proper pension?”

“Her Majesty’s Government is not famous for the pensions they provide their people,” Sherlock said, sounding a bit distracted. “And there’s a good chance he’s gambling, now he’s not in service. He always did like to put a tenner on the jolly when things got dull.”

“He’s got a gambling problem?”

“I don’t know, John,” Sherlock said. “When he was working, it wasn’t usually a problem. Less so than my drugs,” he added, acidly. “Now? I haven’t seen him in years. I won’t speculate in advance of my data.”

“Then you’re at least coming up to check on him?”

“Why? If he needed me, he knows how to reach me.”

“Pride?”

“In what?”

John gritted his teeth. Sussex and bees had mellowed Sherlock in some ways, but in the end he was still an arrogant prat with only the barest notion of human nature. “He’s a friend, Sherlock.”

“Yes.” Sherlock’s voice had that absolutely amazing degree of cluelessness.

“Friends look out for each other.”

The silence was complete. John sighed. “Never mind. I’ll see what I can find out. At least I’m in London.”

“That’s good,” Sherlock said, then simply switched subjects. “How’s Mary?”

“She’s fine, for someone thrice dead. The cover’s holding. And Janine? See her often?”

“She’s over most days,” Sherlock said, and the smile that always surprised John glowed in his voice. He paused, and John could hear a woman’s voice in the background. Sherlock snorted, and then said, “She wants to know when you and Mary can make it down. It’s been too long.”

“Not this month,” John said. “Next month, though, maybe. Tell her to call Mary—she keeps the calendar.”

“Tell her to pencil in time to check on Lestrade, then,” Sherlock said, autocratically. “You’ll forget otherwise.”

John smiled. So, Sherlock wasn’t quite as indifferent as he pretended. “Wll do. Laters, Sherlock. Ta.” When he got off the phone, he began the search for Lestrade’s address.

oOo

“Mycroft, check.”

Mycroft made a sulky little moue, and sighed. “It’s hardly what one would call a matter of national security, Sherlock.”

“An old debt, then.”

“Excuse me?”

“He was a good minion for years, Mycroft. Don’t even try to pretend otherwise. If John says he’s in trouble, then he’s probably seconds short of bankruptcy and clinging by his fingernails.”

“Not exactly impressive.”

“Need I point out your own shortcomings, brother-mine?”

“As though anything ever stopped you.”

“Mycroft.”

Mycroft frowned at the newspaper resting on his slim legs. “You’re pushing.”

“Mycroooooft.”

“What?”

“Brother-mine, please tell me you’re not completely fossilized.”

“Does he matter so much to you?”

“He worked with us both for years, Mike.”

Mycroft closed his eyes and found, to his surprise, that he remembered the silver-dapple hair, the sudden blazing smile, and the sense of having a reliable, solid ally to call on…someone he could truly trust. It was a feeling he’d not enjoyed for years.

“Very well. You do know there’s likely to be only so much I can do without offending him?”

“Offend him if you have to. John’s checking on him right now. Call and see what he learns—but, do something. John’s only going to stalk around muttering that it’s not right, and that something should be done. You’ll know what that something is.”

“Your faith in me is touching.” The irony dripped from Mycroft’s lips automatically. “God alone knows trying to repair the household economy of retired pensioners has hardly been a specialty of mine.”

oOo

“He’s in a state,” John said, bluntly. He leaned back in the club chair at the Diogenes and swirled the scotch in his glass. He had aged well, Mycroft thought. He’d hit that craggy, furrow-browed look young, but it had weathered well. Now he looked little different than he had a decade before, and his ash blond hair had simply eased further into silver tones. He remained an energetic ball of energy, like a bull terrier. “Appears he lost most of his savings during the divorce, and was never much for saving in the first place. He went into retirement at a disadvantage, and he’s been losing ground ever since.”

“The gambling,” Mycroft said.

“You’ve done your own research, then?”

“Easily enough done. A rather simple paper trail, a few questions In the right ears. He appears to be one of those sorry souls who can’t quite bring himself to hold on to a shilling if letting it go will bring a moment’s happiness.”

“No. Apparently his wife was the frugal one…and she got most of the benefit in the settlements. I got a look at his cupboards. Tinned beans. Instant soups. Jugs of tomato sauce and spaghetti noodles. Not much more, and no sign there has been for some time. He’s got the heating off, and is getting by on what seeps in from the adjoining flats. As near as I can tell he’s spending a lot of time in bed under layers of duvets, reading. No telly. No internet.”

Mycroft frowned. After so many years the idea of being without the internet felt, to him, like being without sight, or hearing. Like being dead and nailed into a pine coffin. More than the lack of heat, more than the cupboards full of cheap starch, more than a life tied to a bed and a library book, the thought of no ability to check his email made him twitch. How did people live like that?

“A shame he’s not a particularly _talented_ gambler,” Mycroft said. “Win it all back with one lucky hand.”

“He’s not that interested in cards,” John said, “though I daresay he could be talked into a game of poker without too much trouble. It’s the football and the horses and the bar bets…and he bets his heart, not his head.”

“Is there any chance he’ll let you help?”

“None. Took hours to wring this much out of him, and I’m honestly not sure he’ll forgive me for doing it. Had to employ my Sherlock skills to get it out of him, and he’s sulking like Sherlock used to, too. Pride—when you’re down to that level, pride’s the only luxury you’ve got left.”

“The central point being it _is_ a luxury,” Mycroft sighed. “Tinned beans and toast is hardly a sensible diet for a man his age.”

“High fiber, low cholesterol,” John said. “That’s good. No vitamins worth mentioning. That’s not so good.” He finished the scotch, and rose, gathering his coat. “Well. I’ve told you what I can. Hope you can do something with it. I’m off home to Mary.”

He said the name with warmth—a warmth that, like the lack of internet, seemed alien to Mycroft, though he conceded that, after the long struggle John had suffered to have his Mary, the warmth was understandable.

Mycroft rose and walked the man to the exit of the Stranger’s Room. “I appreciate your efforts, John.”

“Considering I was the one who spotted him and shouted, I think the thanks are due the other way around. I’m glad you listened. What do you think you can do about it?”

Mycroft cocked his head, and his face softened in a wistful look. “In truth? I have no idea.” He gave a crooked grin at Watson’s expression of dismay, and added, reassuringly, “That doesn’t mean I won’t have, though, given time. Go. Go home to your wife and children, Dr. Watson. I’ll manage from here.”

oOo

He reviewed his old files. In theory he didn’t need to, but he’d never been as fond of the Mind Palace system as Sherlock was—at least, not without supplement. He pulled out old photos, summoned newspaper articles from the online morgues, amazed to be reminded how often DI Lestrade had glowered out of the accompanying illustrations. Scotland Yard’s finest. MI5’s dead-reliable wheelhorse. MI6’s adaptable, steady seconded operative.

He found to his own surprise that he had fond memories of Lestrade. The man had a smile like sunrise, he thought, and he wasn’t too proud to be pleased at small blessings.

Mycroft’s first instinct had been to shy from Lestrade’s gambling and thriftless ways, as repelled as he was by Sherlock’s old drug habits. And yet…

Who was without a desire for a bit of luck, a bit of a thrill? Like Sherlock’s old habits, Lestrade seemed most susceptible when he was bored or unhappy—and like Sherlock’s habit it was a self-defeating spiral, driving him further and further down. But Mycroft had no more idea how to break that spiral than he’d known how to help Sherlock.

Lestrade had actually done more that worked—if only by giving Sherlock something to do, and someone neither dismayed nor inclined to enable the younger man.

Mycroft could remember the first time he’d seen Sherlock smile as he came out of the darkest of those times. He’d allowed himself to be dragged out for dinner, and had let Mycroft lure him into discussing a case. He’d been talking about how he’d nearly been thrown off the site, only Lestrade had intervened—then apparently hauled Baby Brother aside, read him the riot act, and laid out a list of rules. Sherlock, telling, had been caught between laughter and affront, bouncing back and forth between the two, eyes alive for the first time in ages…and Mycroft had blessed his stars that Lestrade had been willing to work with them all. The MI5 liaison had saved Sherlock’s life.

Mycroft took his research home, and over the next week he mulled on it in the silent evenings. The old wind-up clock ticked on the mantel; the fire crackled in the fire place. The servants, well-trained, left him alone, so that he might as well have dwelt in the castle of the Beast, in Beauty and the Beast, cared for by invisible spirits.

At last, he made a decision. He put on his trim Crombie coat, he collected his umbrella, he called for his driver, and he sat in the black sedan as it whispered through the city, coming to a stop in front of a drab block of former council housing, now privatized. He asked the driver to wait, and climbed the stairs up to Lestrade’s. He rapped at the door.

Lestrade opened the door, dressed in worn clothes that offended Mycroft’s every sensibility. Not that it mattered. The look on Lestrade’s face—shame and betrayal and exhaustion and self-loathing—demanded all his attention.

“I should have known John would spread the word,” Lestrade said, bitterly.

Mycroft quirked him a wry grin. “Indeed, you should. Now—are you going to let me in, or am I going to have to call in reinforcements?”

Lestrade sighed, and stepped aside, and Mycroft walked into rooms so drab and passionless they reminded him of Hades, the sad Greek land of the dead.

oOo

“I’d offer you something, but there’s not much in the place but tap water and tea. Cheap tea at that.”

“No need.” Mycroft Holmes sat gingerly on the sofa, and Lestrade felt the flare of fury at being humiliated this way, and grief that he’d brought this on himself. If he were any damned good at money, or at betting, or at marriage—if he’d been good at any of it, he’d not be here, under the observing eyes of the elder Holmes.

“So.” Lestrade dropped heavily into the battered armchair he’d watched telly from, before he’d given up his license.

“So. You’re in rather a mess. Are you going to let us help easily, or are you going to make it hellish?” Mycroft sounded maddeningly calm about it all.

“Fight like hell,” Lestrade growled.

“Must you?”

“Man’s got some pride.”

“Yes, but why pride in this?” Mycroft asked, suddenly seeming quite curious. “Pride in your record, yes. Pride in your career, by all means. Pride in your common decency, or the good you did in the world. Pride in Sherlock. Pride in any of it. You’ve more than enough to be proud of. You could have turned to us for help at any time. Why not turn to at least Sherlock? God knows, he owes you more than he can repay in one lifetime, no matter how much help you need.”

Lestrade considered, gaze resting on Mycroft, as Mycroft gazed as unwaveringly back. The silence drew out, as he thought. At last he said, “I always knew the difference, you know. Between us—you Holmeses and me. Sometimes it was wonderful—like watching a magic act, only it saved lives. Solved crimes. Dealt with terror threats. I’d go to the two of you desperate, because you were just short of miracles, and the world needs all the miracles it can get. I’d watch you two. And I always knew—we weren’t the same. I couldn’t do that. I can’t do that. I may be at the smart end of ordinary—but I’m still ordinary.” He felt the ache he’d ignored for decades creep into his chest and throat. “When I signed on to the force, when I was hired by MI5, I  wanted to be the best. The best copper in the Met. The best agent England had. Kid dreams, yeah? But I wanted to be the tops. And for a long time I thought I was up there—until I ran head first into what the Holmes Boys can do, and it finally sank in. I’m….ordinary. Not a bad man, and not a bad copper, and not a bad damned agent. But—still. Ordinary. The kind of bloke Moriarty would have laughed at. The kind that Adler woman could have danced rings around. Being a bloke wasn’t just a cover, the way I’d thought it was. It was who I was. Good old Lestrade. Not dull—but not the sharpest knife in the drawer, either. And nothing I could do in all my life would change that. I learned a lot from you and Sherlock—but nothing was ever going to be enough to close up the gap.”

Mycroft was watching him. He sat, prim and proper on the sofa, hands folded over the curved handle of the umbrella, pale blue-grey eyes watching. A faint crease ran between his brows, and he was studying Lestrade with that unsettling fixed attention so distinctive in the Holmes Boys.

“I…It hurt.” Lestrade felt like an idiot even admitting it, but he barreled on. “It hurt worse when I realized just how much you and Sherlock cared about it. You against all the stupid ones. You and all the rest of us. And there you two were, with your public school accents and your money and then on top of it those brains. How could I go to Sherlock for help, Mr. Holmes? I’m poor, and I’m poor because I’ve been stupid. But at least…I’m poor and I’m stupid, but I don’t have to look in Sherlock’s eyes and watch him _know_ it. Know it down to the last nuance. Deduce every idiot thing I’ve ever done, and know he was right all along, and I’m just—ordinary. An ordinary old fool.” He felt the anger and grief curdle in his empty belly, and murmured, “Same as it ever was, same as it ever was, same as it ever was, same as it ever was.”

“Talking Heads,” Mycroft said, almost absently. “’Once in a Lifetime.’ Singularly apropos.” He sat and stared, then, silent.

Lestrade was beginning to wonder if he could ask Mycroft to leave, when the other man finally spoke.

“Did Sherlock ever tell you anything about our childhoods?”

“No.”

“No. I’m not surprised.” Mycroft sighed, heavily. “My mother and father, for a range of reasons, brought us up in in near isolation for the first twelve years of my life. The first five of Sherlock’s. It wasn’t a bad childhood in some ways. It was safe. It was stable. I read a lot. I had imaginary companions. So did Sherlock, though he was more interested in the family dog. But as Sherlock reached school age, Mummy and Father realized how—little socialization I’d had. So they decided to make sure Sherlock didn’t suffer the same problem.” He grimaced. “And of course, to do what they could to ‘remedy’ my own lack of experience. They sent us both to boarding school. That was when we both realized fully for the first time what we were. How we were different.”

The tone of his voice made it all clear enough to Lestrade. He made a face. “Kids can be mean,” he said. “And it’s hard to believe it’s ever going to get better when you’re just a kid yourself.”

“Ah,” Mycroft said. “But it was clear it never would get better. And that to be better, I’d have to destroy my intellect. Make myself ordinary.” He ducked his head. “I chose…I suppose I refused to choose. I learned quite a bit better than Sherlock ever did how to pass. As a gay man I use the term with full awareness. I passed. Even when I came out as gay, I had learned to get by as a clever damned sod. And…pride kept me sane. No matter how the ordinary people hated me, no matter how much they wanted me to get stupid for them—I wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction. To do so would have been suicide, you see,” he added, softly. “As much so as if I’d hanged myself from a tree branch, or swallowed lye, or overdosed on drugs.”

Lestrade didn’t know if he felt more sympathy—or more annoyance that even now this man’s unhappy childhood of wealth and brilliance somehow seemed to trump Lestrade’s own current poverty and unhappy ordinariness.

“Pride,” Mycroft said, then. “Pride. And shame. And fear that I’d be noticed—that my difference would be noticed. Fear I was a monster of some kind. Pride that if I was a monster, at least I was a useful one.” He looked down at his folded hands. “Sherlock and I had a fight once. Well—of course we’ve had dozens of fights. This time was after he came back from the Fall. Back from the dead. He suggested I was…lonely. And when I insisted that I wasn’t—that all that was there for me was a world of slow ordinary people—he…” He seemed to draw into himself unhappily. “He put on this horrible hat we’d been deducing together, and asked why anyone would care whether they were different. He’d caught me, of course. I cared quite dreadfully that I was different, and feared being different in the eyes of ordinary people. He’s right. I don’t make friends. But…part of why I don’t make friends is pride, and fear.” He met Lestrade’s eyes. “I…don’t want to experience that moment when I look into someone’s eyes, and know I’m nothing but a monster. A brilliant monster. I have learned that my intelligence is no more welcome than my wealth or my power. I think if it weren’t for pride, my own difference would have destroyed me. As it is, it cut me off.”

Lestrade let the other man’s confession settle into his own soul. At last he said, “I don’t know how to let go, Mycroft.”

“I don’t, either. Pride…it’s armor.”

Lestrade found he was shivering with the strain of the connection between them. He licked his lips, and forced the words out. “I…need help. I…. Help. Help me. Please?”

Mycroft gave an almost microscopic nod, eyes fragile and afraid. “Yes. If…if you’ll trust me? Even if I’m a brilliant monster? And a wealthy posh monster at that?”

Lestrade considered, then smiled—a small smile that did little more than warm his brown eyes, but, still, a smile. “Yes.”

Mycroft’s own mouth slipped into a little smile. “Good.”

He held out his hand, and Lestrade took it.  Their gazes seemed fused. At last, they let go.

“Well, then,” Mycroft said, looking away, uneasily. “Let’s see what we can sort out, now, yes? Can you abide living in my place for a while? It’s just I’ve got more than enough room…”

“I can probably bear it,” Lestrade said. “Can you bear to let me do some kind of work for you? I hate to sound like Sherlock, but I’m bored, and I’d feel less of a leech if I were making myself useful.”

“I think something can be worked out,” Mycroft said. “An arrangement between…friends.”

Lestrade smiled, then, and nodded. “Definitely. Between…friends.”

 


End file.
